Mortal Remains (23 page)

Felix had fallen asleep and woken to hear terrible screams coming from Tom, who had died in agony. Elise had not been seen again; she had been found unfit to serve at the front; and had been sent home. Felix had not let the matter rest there; he was sure the nurse, whose husband had been killed in Crete, had injected Tom with some fatal substance, as an act of vengeance. He had pursued the matter, after the war, but with no result. Although he had given up mentioning it, Gwenda knew that he had never forgotten it. He had tried to trace the nurse himself when official methods had proved unsuccessful, but at last had had to give up, hoping retribution had caught up with her anyway.

Patrick silently handed Manolakis the letter. The Greek read it slowly and painstakingly, once or twice asking for explanations.

‘So that is it,’ he said.

‘She found security in America, I suppose. And George has money,’ said Patrick. What a horrible story. What had Felix tried to do? He had not been clever enough to outwit Elise, that was certain. He had stopped thinking of her as Elsie already.

‘She may have done other things, also,’ said Manolakis. ‘In Germany, later. Things her own countrymen would not like. We will have to discover. They may want her themselves.’

War crimes. It was possible. And poor George was the fall guy. What about his
philotimo
now?

Manolakis said he would like to have the letter photocopied. Might he take it away, and bring it back in an hour or so? Patrick asked if he was going to bring the matter to the attention of the Athens police, and he said not immediately; first he would attempt to trace Elsie’s true identity by finding out the name of her archaeologist husband. When there was more to go on, then, if necessary, the Lomax case would be re-opened. He was here on his own initiative, not officially.

‘You come back to Crete. You stay with me. I have a nice house, a nice wife, nice children – and a sister,’ said Manolakis. ‘We have many nice talks about all this trouble and you teach me English.’

His was slipping; Patrick knew the feeling; after a day spent speaking another language, suddenly the effort became too much when one grew tired, and the simplest phrase eluded one.

‘Thank you,’ he said. What a pleasant idea, especially the sister. But Greeks guarded their sisters’ virtue jealously. ‘I’ll see,’ he said.

Manolakis went off with the letter and he went up to his room where he telephoned the police, who said they would like to see him, but the next morning would do. Then he telephoned Ursula.

He learned that she and Nikos had taken a very distressed Vera back to her family. She had agreed to say nothing to her daughter or son-in-law until the next day, but the young people did not seem satisfied with the tale she had spun about feeling unwell. They did remember, however, that she had mentioned travelling out with Ursula, and her son-in-law knew Nikos by repute, which had been some reassurance to them. Vera was not cut out for involvement in melodrama, said Ursula; even her naval career had been spent very safely in Scotland in some paymaster’s department.

Patrick said that a letter had come from Gwenda which made everything clear, though it proved nothing. It was arranged that Ursula and Nikos would have dinner with him in the hotel and learn what had happened after they parted that morning at Epidaurus.

There was a lot to tell them, Patrick thought, when they had rung off. He looked ruefully at his hand, which throbbed slightly; he hoped Manolakis was right about germs.

Ursula did not even know that Manolakis had come over from Crete.

‘So Gwenda turned up trumps in the end,’ said Ursula, and then had to explain this idiom to Nikos and Dimitris Manolakis. The policeman had returned with the letter just as Ursula and Nikos arrived, and had been persuaded to join them for dinner.

‘Yes.’ Patrick had to admit that Gwenda’s sense of duty had triumphed. Perhaps she was not so bad really; just wrong for Felix; inappropriate pairing.

They had finished an excellent meal and were sitting in comfortable chairs in a corner of the lounge going over the story. Manolakis showed them photographs of the stiletto which Elsie had dropped in the tomb; he had already taken it to some official department for finger-printing; it would help trace Elsie’s true identity if she were wanted in Germany. The dagger was very old, the handle beautifully wrought and chased with an intricate design; the men in the police department had exclaimed over it and would refer it to experts. They were sure it was priceless, and Manolakis thought it must be some trophy Elsie’s husband had found in one of his digs.

‘She could be extradited, I expect,’ said Patrick.

Manolakis knew that her first husband had been to Mikronisos; Patrick wondered how much he knew about the more recent events on the island: just what had been reported in the papers, or, by now, the details?

‘Your holiday is not giving you rest,’ the policeman said. ‘Remember my words.’

Patrick laughed and said he would do so. Manolakis then made his excuses and left them.

‘What a nice man,’ said Ursula. ‘I remember liking him before, when he had that coffee with us in Challika.’

‘He is clever,’ said Nikos.

‘Is your hand really all right?’ Ursula asked.

‘Yes – the trouble was trying to conceal it,’ said Patrick. ‘I suppose it was stupid to think she’d try something with insulin. She couldn’t in a place like that.’

‘Still – you were prepared,’ said Nikos. ‘She was versatile.’

‘She couldn’t have hoped to get away with stabbing you, though,’ said Ursula. Suppose the knife had plunged into Patrick’s heart or lungs?

‘I don’t know. If I hadn’t yelled, and if she’d done it when I was out of the way – so that no one stumbled over me. And if I wasn’t missed straight away—’ Patrick’s voice trailed off. ‘She didn’t know who Manolakis was. She might have fobbed George off.’

‘It was a long shot,’ said Ursula, and had to explain that one to Nikos.

Patrick wondered what would happen to both of them. There they sat, happy together, the position perfectly clear, yet he felt it was a transitory time for them.

Nikos ordered more coffee, and before it arrived, Patrick was called to the telephone. He was gone some time, and when he returned, his face was grave.

‘What’s happened? It’s not Vera?’ asked Ursula.

‘No. That was George,’ said Patrick. ‘He wanted to ask about my hand. He noticed it was cut when we stopped on the way back, and he’d discovered an antique stiletto which Elsie used as a paper knife and took everywhere with her was missing.’

‘She’d never get through an airport frisking with that thing,’ said Ursula. ‘I suppose she packed it in her suitcase. Go on.’ For Patrick clearly had more to tell.

‘He’d seen a letter,’ Patrick said. ‘A photocopy. A messenger brought it, he said.’ Had Manolakis gone there himself? Patrick felt he was being incoherent, where George on the telephone had been perfectly clear.

‘Elsie’s not very well. She’s feeling thirsty and has a headache,’ he said. ‘They’re leaving Athens early tomorrow and flying to Rome. George thinks she’s suffering from the heat, so he’s hiring a car and taking her up into the mountains. They’ll go to some small village.’ He looked at the other two. ‘He doesn’t speak French or Italian, he said, and “of course you know that Elsie speaks no German, so if she falls ill in a village where there is no doctor, it would be difficult.” That’s just what he said, his very words,’ said Patrick.

There was a silence.

‘Insulin looks like water.’ said Ursula at last. ‘If she doesn’t get the right dose – if it’s diluted—’ she did not finish.

‘Yes,’ said Patrick.

‘He means to do it?’ Ursula’s voice was shaky.

‘I think he’s begun already,’ said Patrick. ‘But he won’t let it happen in Greece. I think he means to take her back to where she came from.’

Friday

Crete

Two days later Patrick flew to Heraklion.

He had spent some time with the Athens police on Thursday. They had a strong lead to the identity of Kamal; according to the London information, it seemed as if the grave had been found by chance. The men were really involved with arms smuggling; they brought shipments from various sources and hid them in a cave on Mikronisos before sending them on to their ultimate destination. Once a small bomb had gone off by accident, exposing the side of a stone coffin and incidentally killing one of the gang, whose body had now been found on the island.

Kamal, who was pretending to be interested in the project of building a hotel on the island in order to roam freely over it, had realised the value of the unexpected find. Help from Crete had been recruited; one of Kamal’s accomplices had once worked as an unskilled labourer on an official dig there and knew of a woman who had helped with more expert work and some vase repairs. Her son had been traced and persuaded to join them, bringing her too. He had been in prison already for fraud and was easy to enlist. All this Arthur Winterton had revealed before he died, hoping for clemency if he told what he knew. But Yannis had feared the advent of an inquisitive godfather from England who might ask too many questions and who knew about the ancient remains. The car of the friend he was to travel with had been wrecked in an effort to keep him away when he wrote to say he was coming; then the man himself had died.

‘My God,’ cried Patrick, when this was disclosed. ‘They smashed up my car to stop us?’

‘To delay you. They were getting out of the antiques business,’ said the Greek police officer. ‘They’d come to the end of one grave and they didn’t know there might be others. The arms business was more in their line, but our officials were thinking it was time plans for the hotel took more definite shape. It looked as if questions would soon be asked, and Kamal meant to operate from some other base. Scotland Yard has found two of the minor members of the organisation. Arthur Winterton committed suicide. When the police let him go on bail he was afraid that the gang would kill him because he had told so much; he knew they were merciless. He had not expected to be released like that. Dermott Murcott surprised them in the cave, cleaning up the last of their finds. He had to be silenced. They knocked him out and then took him back up the cliff and threw him over so that he would be found some distance away.’

‘I see,’ said Patrick. He could not get over the wanton destruction of his car. What a nerve!

‘Your friends in London will tell you, when you see them. The good Inspector Smithers.’ The Greek officer smiled. ‘We are very grateful to you, Dr Grant. We will trace the men, I hope. We do not want another illegal arms business operating from our soil. I hope you will have no trouble replacing your car.’

‘Oh – the insurance will pay, I suppose.’ By the time he got home they might have made up their minds about the amount due. He would have to decide what sort of car to get; not another Rover, he thought: something a little more sporty, perhaps.

He parted cordially from the policemen, who would now never need the cigarette-stub so carefully preserved. Then, with Ursula, he went to see Vera Hastings. They told her most of the story, but not the terrible revenge which George would exact. Vera was left assuming that Inspector Manolakis would wind the affair up in a few days; she promised to keep her own counsel meanwhile. Manolakis would, eventually, discover what happened, Patrick was sure.

The Loukases had checked out from the Hilton that morning; Mrs Loukas had not seemed well; she complained of a severe headache and thirst, Patrick was told when he telephoned the hotel to ask about them.

In the evening, he had dined at Tourcolimanos with Ursula and Nikos; he would see them again on his way home to England and they would make the promised return visit to Mycenae.

And now he was back in Crete. He had hired a car at the airport, and he drove straight to Ai Saranda. The old men he had met before were at the
kafenion,
and welcomed him as a friend but they were still evasive. Ilena was back in the village, they said, and sent him to see her, with an interpreter.

She was very tense and her manner was reserved, but she was shocked and distressed to hear of Alec’s death. She had been away from Crete on a long visit but was back now for good and glad to be home. Yannis was not with her; she did not know where he was exactly, she thought it might be Beirut. But he was a good son and would see her provided for. Patrick wondered how Yannis had managed to persuade her to go to Mikronisos; he must have spun her some tale and convinced her that he was turning over a new leaf. Once on the island, she would have found it impossible to get away.

He did not press her, nor did he offer to visit her again before leaving Crete. He would protect her better by keeping away.

It seemed very peaceful in Challika when he returned there. The
Psyche
was moored at her usual berth and Spiro was swabbing her deck. Patrick wondered how Yannis had managed to involve Spiro in his nefarious doings. Perhaps Spiro had simply been trying to make enough money to marry Sophia, but poor Jill had been duped. He evidently hoped to bluff it out; if Yannis stayed free he would probably get away with it.

He would have to decide where to stay. On the whole it might be prudent not to risk the temptations of Mano- lakis’s sister. While he thought about it, he parked close to the Hermes, where he had stayed before, and walked over to the pillbox on the headland. There, as Ursula had said, was scratched on the stones, inside, the sentence which meant ‘The German woman Elise has—’ and then ended, incomplete. Patrick ran his fingers over the Greek script. He was thus engaged when he heard a footfall and turned to see Dimitris Manolakis standing beside him.

‘But how?’ Patrick asked.

‘We’ll never know,’ said Manolakis. ‘Perhaps she saw him coming up the cliff – they may have met by chance. Perhaps she had agreed to meet him here.’

So Manolakis knew Felix had arrived by boat. How much did he know about the
Psyche
and her journeys? He must have learned the whole story of Mikronisos by this time. What about poor little Sophia from the shop?